Grace - essa may ranapiri

I touch Jesus with questions on my finger tipsBubbling like thoughts in a fish tankDrowning in the taste of salt waterStinging the holes in your handsHow can you see with my breath fogging up your lens?This isn’t a conversation; all I do is cry like a childWithout a lightAnd too many nightmaresAm I just a story you’ll return to after dinner?Please don’t dog ear the pagesAnd keep your elbows off the tableThese questions swarm like locustsScreaming “Only the Devil doubts”Painting red on floorboardsWhich I chew to pulp in my mouthWaitingFor a voice in my headTo tell the truthPoor John never had a chanceYou would say something like“It is your face that draws my gazeAnd not the artistry of this platter”Blood stains the silverwareNow these two pink fistsTrapped in problemsClenched in rigor mortisGaze in awe at the sunIn the belief that a blanketCould provide me any warmthWhen every thread is a tripwireSet up to a Middle Eastern mineICan’tDoThisPeel off my whitewashed skinSeparate my flesh from brittle bonesTrace a hot blade over my heartAnd cut out the filth in my veinsWith your sword of forgiveness

Contributor's Note

My name is essa. I am doing a BA with my two majors being English and History. I am now in the second semester of my second year at Waikato University and all is going well. I have been into writing stories and poetry for most of my life and I am very grateful for the opportunity that has been provided here.